


find an old picture (remember what was lost)

by ohmymaple71



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nostalgia, Pre-Canon, Red - Freeform, kind of?, this is deadass just coran remembering things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 09:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11780277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymaple71/pseuds/ohmymaple71
Summary: Red; adjective:of a color at the end of the spectrum next to orange and opposite violet, as of blood, fire, or rubies.





	find an old picture (remember what was lost)

To some, red meant fire. It meant blood, and anger and rage; it was a flaring sensation, it consumed you from the chest and grew until it was the catalyst of harm, of hurt and pain. It left you tired, empty, used. It was the scent of blood and the feeling of a raw throat, it was knowing it was wrong but not being strong enough to stop it, not before it had really begun.

To others, red was simply warm. It was the taste of cinnamon on a cold day, the feeling of woolen blankets and the love of someone dear. It, too, warmed you from the chest, but it was far more gentle; it was a slow, lethargic warmth. It came from the core of your being, a long tendriled thing that wrapped about every limb, made every smile just a bit wider, every laugh a bit more genuine.

To Allura, it was familiar. It was safety, and the stories her father would tell her as a child. It was a familiar colour, something no amount of warning lights could warn her away from finding comforting. Even the times it was bitter, it wasn’t nearly as bad as she expected it could have been, because she couldn’t let it get that bad. Not now. Not yet. Red was stability, it was the ability to lead not as a single person, but as a part of a unit; it was knowing where your strengths best lay, and knowing that as you protected and served, you were protected and served for in turn.

 

Coran, however, found red to be something else altogether. It couldn’t ever be a single memory, a single idea or feeling, because it spanned so many of them. Red was the colour of his grandfather’s sweatshirt, the one he always wore when he was a child. It was the colour that had dominated the first aptitude test he’d taken, the one that had made him push harder. It was the droplets of blood in the bathtub, smeared across his fingers and beading from the newest piercings in his ears. 

Red was his family, the mixture of so many shades of it that made their telltale hair, or the colour of his aunt’s earrings as she tutted over his own. It was the rug in his bedroom, the one he had spent so many hours of his childhood laying on, imagining space, the worlds beyond Altea and what they could become. 

It was the crimson of his uniform, the one that he had spent hours pouring over books and tablets to earn, the one that had marked him as one of the top in his first year. It was that same uniform he had stained darker, when he’d gotten those piercings caught one time too many. It was the colour he had eliminated from his workload that year, that he had so rarely seen until he graduated.  
It was, he supposed, similar to the pink that had spread across the other boy’s cheeks, that first day when he hadn’t recognized him. It was the pleased flush of someone unused to being approached directly, who hadn’t expected this ginger boy in the same red uniform to ignore the small space around him. Hadn’t known he’d sit right there and introduce himself; Coran Smythe, from the Melkon District, with only the vaguest of family ties to the royal service.

 

If Coran were honest, it hadn’t been bravery or young boldness at all; he hadn’t recognized the other Altean at first, hadn’t realized he’d ignored custom and started small talk with the then-Prince. He’d felt quite ridiculous when he had noticed, he remembered, but not remorseful. No, he’d never regret that, never regret befriending Alfor, not when he’d held such an important part of Coran before either even knew it.

 

The drink Alfor had spat had been red, the one that no amount of manners could have prevented when Coran told that joke, in that tone in the mess hall, in the small cafe, it had always been that colour of red because Alfor had always been that kind of predictable. On the other hand, however, it had been Coran who had looked like a beet, that first year of exams. Breathless and watery-eyed, he’d been unable to pull himself up from the floor when they were studying, because their humour had been so simple. So easily found, and it had been nice to have a friend that didn’t look at his scarred ears in disdain, had shown some of his own and told the stories in return.

 

It hadn’t been the colour of their friendship. Their friendship had come so easily, encompassed them so quickly it had always been as if Coran were standing in a room of coloured glass, and everywhere he looked there was another colour, another beam of light, beautiful in how it shone.

Another memory, the phantom feeling of natural camaraderie, of understanding another person so well and being understood in the same way.

 

Blue, for field they had gotten lost in when hiking, for the markings on both their faces. Green, from when Alfor had convinced him to attend a festivity at the castle, one he didn’t remember the purpose for, but that they’d both ended up wearing a similarly coloured tunic. Orange, like the ink Alfor had caught in his hair, the time they had been gasping for breath over how silly it was.

It had taken them nearly three decalages to get it all out, not helped by the jokes they’d kept cracking, the comparisons they’d kept making.

Red had been the colour of Alfor’s scarf when he’d first mentioned that he felt pulled in two directions, that he feared he’d push too far and become too obvious. That he worried he wouldn’t be able to take the mantle he was born into. It was all Coran could see the first time they’d taken a dispute into a sparring match, the metallic flavour that was so strongly present in the back of his mouth when they’d stared each other down and realized how stupid it was.

Red had been the colour Alfor had worn when he was crowned, officially, and was the colour he’d turned when his best friend had turned to him and made him his adviser. The warmth had spread during the party, the wine contributing more and more to the flush on their faces and the closeness between them. It had been the blossoming feeling in his chest when they’d slipped away, stepped out to one of the balconies for air, the chill of the night encompassing in its clarity. 

It hadn’t been what he associated with that kiss, however, not that languid first. Purple, maybe, although he doubted he’d know why, not when most of it was the hazy joy of holding someone he loved, the years of underlying questions seeming to be answered easily.

 

Coran would be lying, however, if he said it was always a good memory. Red had meant protection, love, the advancement of Altea and the galaxy around them, but not always. There was little he could associate good with, now, without a tinge of nostalgic pain, especially this.

If he went to those times, it was the taste of blood in his mouth, the sharp pain of digging his teeth into his tongue or cheeks to stop him from yelling. Stop him from fretting over something; the diplomats, the new scar on Alfor’s hand, the cough Allura had developed. It hadn’t been his place to contradict his king, or the time to bring up his worry, or it was the fact that no matter how much he loved and cared for the girl she wasn’t his daughter, not by blood. 

It had been the anger he’d felt, pounding through him over petty disputes; over how this had been handled, or that had been done. The heat that had swelled over a deflected question or pointed comment. The empty, walled off rage he’d been so good at keeping under wraps, be it because of the time or because he knew Alfor wasn’t asking him as his friend. Not as someone he’d known for so many years, someone he’d loved for nearly as many, or even as Coran; he had been asking him as a King to his Adviser. Detached, formal, where logic was all that he wanted, not emotion.

It had been the frustration at these things, the eventual shouting that had come of holding too much in for too long. Miscommunication. Absence. It had been a cold colour, sometimes. 

 

It was the same colour that had been flashing on that day. It had been the panic in his blood, the bitter taste of tears, the burn of understanding. It had been the last thing he’d seen, that image of someone so full of his memories, surrounded by red. It had been an understanding: his duty told him to stand beside his king, his heart and soul and ached to put himself between Alfor and danger, take the damage for someone he loved as both brother and lover, but it had been his logic that had won.

Coran was never a stupid person. Emotional, maybe, or impulsive, but never stupid. He had known at the same time Alfor did that someone needed to be by Allura, someone she knew she could trust with her life, and who better than Coran? He had been there for her father more than half their lives, had seen her grow; in all but blood she was his daughter, too.

And so it had been. So he had stayed, and now here he was; awake, alone, the only one left with these memories, the only one who could remember a time before Alfor was king. The only one who remembered him as the eloquent boy in a red uniform, the filthy teen who insisted they weren’t lost, the young man who couldn’t stop laughing with ink in his hair. 

 

It was painful, really. It hurt. It wouldn’t stop hurting, Coran knew, but it didn’t take away the ache. 

Yet, he wouldn’t dwell on that; Allura needed him to be strong, needed some stability and Coran would give his life for that girl, let alone some stability in this harsh new reality. Red was the blood spilt in anger, in pain. It was the gemstones that lined the rich, that glimmered so prettily in their settings. It was the burning flame, all consuming and demanding of his attention. 

It hurt. It burned and cut, bled and blistered until Coran felt raw all over, felt as if he wouldn’t really wake up, as if another breath would be the thing that finally stopped his heart. 

But he wouldn’t dwell on that. 

No, red may be his memory, it may be familiar, but now it meant hope. Red meant a boy with shaggy hair and jagged edges, dark eyes and a voice that commanded quietly. It was the right arm of Voltron, a new Voltron, but not really. 

 

Red. A colour. Warm, often associated with fire, blood, or gemstones. Opposite to blue.

 

It hadn’t changed all that much at all.

**Author's Note:**

> hi im an emotional mess and this is entirely for people who commented on my other alforan fic because i love????? pain. 
> 
> highkey all of coran's s3 moments made me cry gosh i love him


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